


though the stars walk backwards

by TolkienGirl



Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [233]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, History, Leonids Meteor Shower of 1833, References to Feanor's ill-advised pain training regime, references to baby Fingon being a late talker, references to baby Finrod almost dying of scarlet fever, the good stuff, title from e.e. cummings, you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:21:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24122029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TolkienGirl/pseuds/TolkienGirl
Summary: Night will turn to morning, all the world unscathed.
Relationships: Anairë/Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë, Eärwen/Finarfin | Arafinwë, Finarfin | Arafinwë & Finrod Felagund | Findaráto, Fingolfin | Ñolofinwë & Fingon | Findekáno, Fëanor | Curufinwë & Maedhros | Maitimo, Fëanor | Curufinwë/Nerdanel
Series: All That Glitters Gold Rush!AU: The Full Series [233]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1300685
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	though the stars walk backwards

_“On the night of November 12th to 13th, 1833, a tempest of falling stars broke over the Earth.”_

_\- Agnes Clerke_

There are no neighbors near enough to Formenos—by Feanor’s own design—to rally or crowd. What weapons would they choose, he wonders, to raise against the breaking heavens?

As yet, the earth remains untouched.

(To be a child again would be to see his mother amidst these falling stars. To be a child again would be to shift his gaze, restless with the beauty of the thing beheld, never pausing to _understand_ it.)

 _I desire. I desire. I desire_.

A prayer waiting in his mouth, unlike the prayers of other men. He is held back from the sky by his body; his body is the balance and structure of his mind.

His mind—

“Do we need to save them, Athair?”

“What?” He tears his gaze away from the volleying, white-bladed rain. Maedhros sits beside him, his knees drawn up to his chest. In their haste to run out to the field, he had no time to find his own coat. Nerdanel threw hers around him.

 _I’ll come in half a moment_ , she said, with her usual warm imprecision. _Celegorm is just in his crib again, and you know how easily he wakes._

So Feanor took his two eldest boys with him, feeling as if they hastened to their deaths in the wee hours of the morning. It is only a meteor shower; _he_ knows that, because he is no fool, but the knowledge alone does not answer his waiting prayer.

Now the ground is cold beneath them as they tremble with whatever fills each of them. Feanor understands his children with the same keenness that stirred in his younger self, but at present, his mind is diverted by need and something more:

The aching hollow that he must never commit to fear.

Maedhros blinks, his face illuminated. Maglor is sleeping under his father’s left arm, having whimpered in terror at first, for all that he is newly four years old.

Perhaps he should still be abed with little Celegorm.

“Do we need to save Mamai and Maglor and Celegorm,” Maedhros asks, his voice dropping to an even lower whisper. “Is it _now_?”

Death does not await them here, but Feanor has seen it. When faced with a new evil, he tried to ready someone—anyone—who could one day assure the safety of their house.

Not even Nerdanel had understood, then.

Feanor cannot see Maedhros’ small, clever hands in the darkness, but he knows he did not leave lasting scars there. He would not have hurt him, so as to leave scars.

There are lines in the sky, and there are lines a man cannot cross, if he is to go on naming himself as a creature walking upright. Has Feanor not reminded himself of this, these many nights? Has he not held himself back from violence, from rage, even when his demons begged for it?

He does not seek to be rewarded, for this.

_I desire._

Blindly, he gropes in the dark. Maedhros anticipates him—Maedhros trusts him, that is, and his small hand twines in Feanor’s.

They are alive. The stars have not ceased to fall.

Night will turn to morning, all the world unscathed. Some men, through knowledge, shall name these stars for what they were: not stars at all.

Fingolfin is careful not to wake Anaire unless he must. When he married her, his father was pleased (her family being quite respectable), and yet he invited Fingolfin into his book-paneled study for a conversation over cognac that boded some unrest.

 _Is she…hale and strong enough to live?_ His father asked, with a twitch of his brow. Fingolfin could not mistake the deep sadness in his eyes for any origin but that to which it always tended:

His first wife. His first son.

 _I love her, Father_ , he answered, then. He expected anger to follow his rebuff.

It did not come.

With Fingon nuzzling sleepily against his neck, he drops his free hand to Anaire’s shoulder. His excitement, rare flame that it is, so easily consumes him. Now, he has allowed it to overcome his guilt.

“Anaire,” he whispers. “My—my dear, I’m sorry.”

She sits up, and in the dark, he can still see her in muted hints of light and shadow. Her pale cheek, the midnight strands of her hair. It is half-past three.

“What is the trouble?”

“No trouble.” He feels another twinge of conscience. Turgon is an easier sleeper than Fingon was—or is—and his cradle beside their bed is silent.

Yet it was Fingon whom Fingolfin raised from his crib. Another hasty decision.

Fingon makes a small, _unf, unf_ sound. He is two years, six months, talking more than he was at Turgon’s birth time. But still—he is quiet at night. His solid body is warm, heavy. Fingolfin would bear that weight always.

“Is Fingon—”

“There are meteors falling,” Fingolfin explains, trying to keep his voice steady. “A remarkable—you should come and see, if you can. I thought that Fingon might like the sight. I am…I am sorry.”

Anaire is not angry. She rises, without so much as a sigh, and he helps her find a warm wrap. November, and night air! His mother would not scold, for that is not her way, but she would quietly chide him for such a risk.

His mother did not warn him not to wed Anaire. She said,

_Be gentle. Be attentive._

Fingolfin wonders if he is making a cruel exception, tonight, bringing her to the open window of the sitting room, which has the best view of the sky.

Beam after beam, point after shrieking point of light, fire and water and neither.

Mystery to one eye, but not another. He has always loved astronomy. Had loved, as a lonely boy, to chart roads that were empty of _people_ but not of stars.

There were realms in which each body bore the honor of a place.

Fingon sucks his thumb until wonderment causes him to take it out of his mouth, and gaze, round-lipped, at the almost-daylight.

Anaire huddles close, and Fingolfin presses his arm to her shoulders, his kiss to her hair.

“See how the largest among them appear to have tails of lightning!” he whispers. “And there—that is Venus. I know it is difficult to see, but I made certain of its position only this evening—”

Anaire laughs.

He is surprised by that, more than the luminous shower that is a phenomenon to all.

“ _Je t’aime_ ,” she murmurs. “My boy-husband.”

Fingolfin is silenced, happily and utterly.

“ _Tars_ ,” Fingon says, distinctly. “ _Tars_.”

Finrod did not die of the scarlet fever. Each night, this is the thought (the only thought) that can carry Finarfin to sleep or rest. Angrod is a plump-cheeked baby and Earwen is nearing her confinement again, but Finarfin has a favorite child.

He understands his father, at long last. You love most that which is nearly lost to you.

He will never breathe a word of this. He will not make his father’s mistakes in action, whatever should ebb and flow within his heart.

They all dress in heavy winter clothes—Finarfin, Earwen, and Finrod. Angrod is bundled in a blanket. Earwen insisted that even he join them in the square,

“For,” she said, patting the swell of her skirt, “The little one and Finrod shall be with us to see the roof of heaven all a-splinter. Ten years from now, or twenty, what shall we say to Angrod? That we did not let him come?”

Finarfin could not argue with that.

There is a great multitude packed into the street below, but the murmur of voices swells and hushes as it might in church.

Finarfin grips Finrod by the hand.

“What are they, Papa?”

“Your uncle Fingolfin would know. I think we would call them meteors. Shooting stars.”

Finrod giggles, at this. “So many guns!” he cries. “Pop, pop! Maybe it is a parade.”

He has seen the ceremonial muskets fired off on Independence Day. That is what _shooting_ means to him.

“Perhaps so,” Finarfin agrees, smiling. Angrod whines, waking from his slumber. Earwen coos to him.

The crowd is restless. Finarfin realizes, belatedly, that the crowd is afraid. That is why they sound like they are praying: awe is like that, for most people. What they do not understand can destroy them.

Fear—fear is strange, to him. No fire rains on them; no pain is felt. Why do the people marvel and beg forgiveness in the same breath?

If it was God who delivered his family, in that panicked month of madness, then this is God’s sign. It is, for Finarfin, as simple as that. He is no great scripture scholar, but it occurs to him—

There are more stars than grains of sand, more grains of sand than moments of life.

Finarfin believes only in the moment at hand.


End file.
